Anticipation hangs in the air

with the smells of corned beef,

sausages and popcorn.

The confetti of lost hopes

dots the barren concrete floor,

while the watchers tightly grasp

big dreams on little scraps

of paper.

Little men, dressed in garish

patterns, brights and pastels,

ironically exude confidence

astride the tall, muscular beasts

on the track below.

The crowd, back from the

stands with beer and sandwiches

grows quiet --

The trumpet sounds, the gates open

and the familiar words

“And they’re off!” signal a

cacophony of cheers, yells and cries.

The regal steeds begin as one force,

until the stronger, faster take the lead,

barreling down the dirt track,

pulling, pushing, stretching

for the finish line,

their tiny riders, crouched

nearly one with their equine mates.

The yells from the stands increase

in pitch and volume as the

speed of the race increases,

the caller’s words nearly lost

in the excitement until

the first horse crosses the line.

The lucky few dance

the dance of victory, then dash

to the windows,

while the rest watch

with envy, then

shrug off the loss,

toss their dreams

of the “Big Win” to the floor,

and strategize for the

next race of hope.

And the horses will always

run again tomorrow.